Of Hatchlings and Overlarge Houses
by nicnac918
Summary: Next time someone comes pounding on your door at three am, probably don't answer it. Eighth in Many Intersecting Planes


AN: To be sure we're clear, this fic is intended to be read after Re(ve)lations, but chronologically it takes place a couple of centuries before that story.

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Greg very seriously considered ignoring the pounding on his front door and just rolling over and going back to sleep. But ultimately he decided he couldn't just leave it, because no one came knocking on the door at three o'clock in the morning unless it was bloody important. That, or they were a bunch of teenagers pulling a prank, but if that was the case, Greg was a Detective Inspector and he had no problems with using his power to put the fear of God, or at least the authorities, into a bunch of idiot kids.

He climbed out of bed, pulled on a robe, and fumbled around for his slippers a bit before giving up the search as a bad job and traipsing across the entire house with bare feet on cold floors. Carol had insisted on the place shortly after they had gotten married, 'something large for our family to grow into,' but here Greg was, one divorce and zero kids later, in an empty too big house that Carol couldn't possibly keep because the memories were too painful. Greg had pointed out that she was the one that had cheated on him, which ended up leading to one of their more spectacular arguments. (An argument that Carol had won, of course, because she always did.)

By this point, Greg and his cold feet were almost hoping it was a bunch teenagers he could yell at for a bit. But when he opened the door he was instead confronted with Mycroft Holmes, holding his ubiquitous umbrella like a staff so he could use the one end to knock on the door. Even better.

"Where the hell have you been?" Greg demanded, his voice containing all the force of a shout, with none of the volume – a concession to his sleeping neighbors.

"This is a conversation better suited to a private location, hardly one that I wish to be having while lingering in a doorway," Mycroft rebuked mildly. Greg dearly wished he could afford to slam the door right in the bastard's face, but if he did that he ran the risk that Mycroft might leave and not come back. Instead he turned on his heel and stalked off to the kitchen, leaving the wide open door as the only indication that Mycroft was allowed in. There was the sound of a shutting door and two sets of footsteps behind him, which Greg took to mean Mycroft and his assistant Portia, or whatever she was called this week, had accepted the implicit invitation.

"I hope this isn't the level of hospitality you show to all your guests," Mycroft commented, and Greg manfully ignored him.

Greg looked over the kitchen, his eye resting briefly on the liquor cabinet, before he snatched the kettle and began filling it with water. He would dearly like something stronger, but with work in a few hours and every indication that he wouldn't be going back to sleep that night, he couldn't afford to get pissed. He glared at Mycroft for a moment before getting down three mugs, with more bangs and clatter than entirely necessary.

"Three years. Three bloody years, and not a word about where you were, or whether you'd managed to find Sherlock and John. Not even a hint. I was starting to think the lot of you were dead," Greg near shouted.

Mycroft smiled grimly, even more so than he usually did, and Greg felt his rant stop short. "Oh, I dare say you had a hint or two, Detective Inspector. You've just been ignoring the signs because you didn't want to believe they were true."

Greg didn't answer right away, choosing instead to focus on finishing the tea. Once it was ready, he handed the first mug to Mycroft, who took a sip and then made a production of how he was not grimacing. The second mug Greg started to hand to Portia, but she seemed fairly weighed down already with a bag slung over one shoulder, a bundle tucked in the same arm, and her Blackberry held in the other hand, so Greg just placed the drink on the counter in front of her, receiving a vague nod for his troubles. Finally, Greg took the last mug for himself, taking a long draught before looking Mycroft in the eye again.

He had heard certain rumors that he had been trying to ignore, writing it off as ramblings and conspiracy theories. Whispers of a facility much like Baskerville, but more deeply secret and with more disturbing lines of research. Not of making monstrous animals, but monstrous humans, of eugenics and augments.

"Sherlock and John were kidnapped," Greg said. He'd suspected as much, of course. He could see Sherlock maybe taking off to follow some case or other and not showing up again for a long while, but John would be certain to let everyone know where they'd hared off to. And it certainly made sense that if there really were some crazies out there trying to build a better human, they'd want to start with Sherlock's brain. And John… despite his attempts to present himself as a completely ordinary person, there was certainly more to him than met the eye.

"Yes," Mycroft confirmed. "I've been spending the last three years locating them, and infiltrating the facility where they're being held."

"When are you getting them out?"

"I'm not," Mycroft replied, to Greg's shock. "Or at least, not for a long while. Despite the impression Sherlock likes to give out, I am not all powerful. At this point I can't get them out of there without putting other, more important things at risk."

"You aren't going to save your brother because you're worried about losing your job?" Greg demanded.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. "You really think so little of me?" he asked. He didn't sound hurt at all, more like he was merely asking as a matter of intellectual curiosity. But then, there were very few people in the world who could affect Mycroft on an emotional level, and Greg rarely flattered himself that he was one of them.

"No, not really," Greg admitted. As much as they seemed to not be able to stand each other, it was obvious that the Holmes brothers cared for each other deeply. "I just…"

"Wanted someone concrete to blame," Mycroft suggested and Greg shrugged a bit sheepishly. "Let me assure you, while I was not able to pull Sherlock and John out of that place, I did manage to speak with them both briefly, and this course of action was agreed upon by all of us."

"What course of action?" Greg asked.

Mycroft gestured toward the bundle in Portia's arms. Greg looked at it, and suddenly he realized that the bag hanging over her shoulder was actually a diaper bag, which meant that the bundle of blankets must be… "Christ, is that a baby?" Greg exclaimed, rushing to take it from Portia. Greg had had a little experience with Carol's sister's kids when they had been babies, and even if he hadn't, he sure as hell knew that carelessly with one arm was not the proper way to hold an infant. Portia relinquished it easy enough before sliding the diaper bag onto the floor and bringing her now free hand up to join the other on her Blackberry.

"It's a baby," Mycroft said, offering the confirmation that Greg no longer needed now that he was staring the peacefully sleeping little one in the face. "It was not too terribly difficult to alter certain records to make it appear as though this infant expired the same way their other attempts had, but I feared if Sherlock were to escape right after their most successful attempt at creating his progeny supposedly passed, effectively ending that particular project, that would raise too many questions."

"Sherlock has a kid?" Greg asked, hardly able to believe it, despite the fact that he was cradling the evidence, evidence that possessed distinctive wisps of Sherlock's curly hair even, in his arms at that very moment.

Mycroft smiled a little, the first real one all night. "A bit hard to swallow, isn't it? Sherlock has been making noises about he needs to make sure he passes on his genes for a very long time now, but I didn't think it would ever really come to pass."

"What's the baby's name?"

"Sherlock was quite insistent that the baby be named Hamish, but Dr. Watson was equally insistent that that particular comment was a joke. Given that the baby is a girl, I'm more inclined to believe Dr. Watson in this case." Mycroft gave the impression of a shrug without actually moving his shoulders. "I suppose I shall leave it to you to pick a name, as you're the one who will be using it the most often."

"Aren't you going to raise her?" Greg asked.

"Of course not," Mycroft replied, as though Greg had suggested something completely inane, rather than that Mycroft might want to have a hand in raising his niece who was, for all intents and purposes, orphaned. "While I'm certain no one knows what I've done at that facility, I am also no longer completely above suspicion either. If I were to suddenly adopt a baby, even one I didn't claim as a relative, questions would be asked. No, it's much better if you take her."

"I can't take care of a baby," Greg objected. Carol had always claimed it was his workaholic tendencies taking up all his time that had caused her to stray, and a baby was hardly able to go elsewhere if her needs weren't being met.

"Don't be ridiculous, you've proven yourself quite capable already," Mycroft said, indicating the way Greg was rocking the baby gently in his arms.

"All I've proven is I'm capable of holding a sleeping baby without dropping her on her head," Greg retorted.

"A very important skill set, I'm sure," Mycroft said. "You needn't worry so much. I wasn't planning on simply dropping the little one off here and abandoning you both to your fate; I fully intend to help as much as I'm able without drawing undue attention to the situation. If that's insufficient, I've also been assured by Sherlock that a Miss Molly Hooper from the morgue is a trustworthy individual, so you may ask for her help, and even tell her the truth of the situation if you feel it necessary."

"But why me? There's got to be someone better suited to this than a childless divorced man fast approaching his fifties."

"There are very few people that both Sherlock and myself would be willing to trust with a matter this important."

"Sherlock wouldn't trust me with this, that wanker doesn't even know my first name," Greg objected.

"To the contrary, when I asked him who he would prefer to take care of his young one, your name was the first of only four he gave," Mycroft told him and Greg felt a warmth in his chest. Because, while he considered Sherlock to be a friend, he had always assumed that Sherlock just saw him as a tool, or a means to an end. "Though, come to think of it, he did call you Gareth," Mycroft added, and this time Greg just laughed.

"Alright, what about one of those other three people than?" Greg asked.

"Despite my brother's faith in her, I decided that Mrs. Hudson was not a suitable choice, as at her age she now longer has the energy to chase after a small child day in and day out. I confess that Dr. Watson's father would have actually been my first choice, but after Dr. Watson was taken, both his father and his sister went into hiding for their own safety and I haven't seen them since. The third person was, of course, Miss Hooper. If you prefer, I can take the infant over to her to care for, but I do feel that you are the better option. Besides, you have all this space here," Mycroft said, making a small gesture that somehow encompassed the whole of the house. "I thought you might appreciate having another person to help fill it."

All that was well and good, but it didn't answer the question of how Greg could actually do this. He'd have to see if he'd be able to take paternity leave; they offered that for adopted kids, right? And he'd need babysitters too, Molly Hooper for sure, and Greg wasn't that close to Mrs. Hudson, but maybe she'd be willing to watch the baby now and again. Or maybe Greg should just find a good daycare. And then there was the stuff he'd need: a crib, toys, formula, piles and piles of nappies, and a good rocking chair, every baby deserves a good rocking chair.

It was amid all this frantic mental scrambling that Greg realized that maybe he did want this. Maybe he really wanted it, a lot more than he had ever realized.

"Hannah," Greg said finally. "I think I'll call her Hannah."

"Excellent choice," Mycroft said, and Greg got the feeling he was referring to more than just the name. Mycroft looked over at Portia and she, without ever once glancing away from her phone, gave an affirmative nod.

"Already working on it, sir."

"Good." Mycroft set down the mug of tea he couldn't have had more than two sips of, and picked his umbrella back up. "Now, Detective Inspector, all the appropriate paperwork for the adoption will be on file, backdated appropriately of course, by the end of the day. You should have your personal hard copies by tomorrow. Everything you might need for Hannah for the next few hours until the shops open is in that bag there, and I will have money placed into your account so you can buy all the other necessary equipment." Part of Greg wanted to protest against the idea that he needed anyone's charity, but at the moment, giving Greg money was probably the only thing Mycroft could do for his niece, and by extension, his brother, so he kept his mouth shut. "I'll be back to check on her when I can, but we really must be leaving now; I'm dreadfully behind at work."

Greg showed the other two out, and, right as Mycroft was getting into the black car that had pulled up just as they had exited the house, another thought occurred to him. "Hey, Mycroft. Why didn't you just take her to a normal adoption agency?" Sure, he'd be much less likely to get a chance to visit little Hannah if she had been adopted by strangers, but there was safety in anonymity, and Greg didn't doubt Mycroft's abilities to look out for her regardless.

Mycroft frowned at him. "Don't be stupid, Gregory. It doesn't suit you." With that, he climbed into the car and slammed the door shut.

Greg went back inside, shutting his own front door. In his mind's eye he could see John, sitting next to him in a pub and saying, in a completely serious-sounding tone of voice, 'Because he's a dragon.' Greg looked down at Hannah again and imagined, just for a moment, that he could see smoke rising from her nostrils.

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Next Part is "Void Stuff" (Story ID: 11707305)


End file.
